


Positive

by bunnyangel



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Buddie Advent 2020, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Infection, M/M, POV Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyangel/pseuds/bunnyangel
Summary: They're both survivors of extraordinary circumstances and there'sjust no waythis is how it ends.Day 16 of the I'm Your Buddie Discord 2020 Advent event. Prompt: Merry Christmas, bitch.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 84
Collections: 25 (More) Days Of Buddie





	Positive

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks (seriously) for the beta, [Marcia Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena).

The moment hangs for just a split second, red and white and blue light flashing off of the thick glob of saliva slowly trailing down a half turned cheek.

The man bares bloody teeth. "Merry Christmas, bitch."

The spell breaks.

"HEY!"

"That'll be another charge for battery _and_ domestic terrorism."

The man spits again, but this time it lands harmlessly on the ground as officers drag him away.

Eddie doesn't move, blood roaring in his ears and jaw working as he raises a gloved fist to wipe the wetness off his face. The splatter across his goggles just smears when he tries.

Rage is curling in his belly, coiling round and round with no suitable outlet. He's shaking with the force of it, the need and the urge and the memories. Like a junkie denied a fix, his eyes stay locked on the shouting, struggling man as he's stuffed into the back of a police vehicle.

"Are you okay?" Buck asks, eyes wide and staring, and something in him eases underneath that gaze. He slowly exhales before he can offer a small, if still tight, smile.

"Here."

He can't take the wet wipe that Hen holds out fast enough.

When his face starts to feel raw, he crumples the wipe in his hand; swoops down and crumples the now useless face mask, dislodged in the scuffle.

He takes another deep, steadying breath, still trying to wrangle the anger and the upset, to loosen the aching muscles still locked against violence. He goes ahead and rips off his goggles, though, for good measure; stands wordlessly as Buck steps up and affixes another mask to his face with newly sanitized, newly gloved hands.

For a moment they stare at one another. Despite how worried they are, the corners of Buck's eyes crinkle. He can so clearly imagine the accompanying smile beneath that mask and is helpless against the curl of his own. He loses himself in that attention, continuing to take measured, even breaths and letting that worried gaze cool the heat still rushing beneath his skin.

"You'll be fine, Eddie."

He thinks of the high statistical rate of transmission, of the newsletter last week announcing two more of their brothers infected and in quarantine, of his son, and hopes so.

The words hang in the air for just a split second, bold and underlined and italicized, flashing neon and buzzing loudly.

He blinks and it's gone, his eyes shooting back to Bobby's face, but it's unreadable on a good day. Now half covered, he can hardly read anything past the cool blue of those eyes.

"Positive," he repeats faintly. "How can he be positive? It should be m--"

His jaw snaps shut as Bobby's eyes narrow.

He's gotten used to the mask, after all these months, but he wants to rip it off because his lungs feel too small all of a sudden; the air he's trying to draw in doesn't feel enough. He has to swallow repeatedly because the urge to throw up is even closer and he's about to gag on the unfairness of it all, when they're so close to the end of all this mess and yet not close enough.

He stands abruptly, the chair shrieking back with the force of it. "Excuse me."

"Eddie--"

He'd somehow dodged a bullet and somewhere, another one had hit Buck instead. Buck, who had spent all of last year recovering from one catastrophe after another and now--

His phone buzzes. Buck's name on his screen.

_I feel fine. It'll be okay._

_Fuck_ , he thinks desperately. _Don't leave me._

He doesn't know where he's going until his feet take him there, ten feet too far and on the wrong side of the doorway and the growing knot in his stomach eases up. The angry words on the tip of his tongue melt in the face of Buck's smile.

Instead he exhales exaggeratedly and stares at him in disappointment with his arms crossed, because this is who they are, and this is what they do.

That smile only grows.

He casually shifts his gaze away, because something about it makes his chest ache. Because he knows (he _doesn't_ ) that it's something increasingly important to him; another center of orbit that he revolves around and finds himself caving into with increasing frequency.

"I can tell you want to yell at me, but you know it's not my fault. At least not this time."

And no, it's definitely not. It's just the inherent risk of this dangerous new reality they've all been living in. It doesn't help the fresh burst of frustration that wells.

"I'm _fine_ ," Buck repeats from his designated isolation corner, fixing a mask back onto his face, still steady and bright despite the restless movement of fingers that says more about his state of mind than he ever will.

He caves, of course, and if a smile stretches across his face without permission, well, no one has to know.

"You better be."

The morning shift of Station 118 is taken off rotation; the other shifts are loaned out.

Only three of their team members are positive, but the rest are in quarantine. No one wants to bring it home to their families.

Buck has a smile on his face.

He also has a mild fever.

"You know carrots don't actually really have flavor?" Buck mutters, staring forlornly at his plate before popping a baby carrot in his mouth. His face twists as he chews. "Man, I miss carrots."

Eddie's sitting on the ground on the wrong side of the doorway still ten feet too far and he thinks this is the furthest he's been from Buck ever.

He also hasn't seen his son in six days and to his everlasting guilt he's not sure which of these things is worse. The world's been literally trying to end all year and he hasn't felt this helpless since Shannon and it's--it's--

He looks down at his own unappetizing meal, stuffs his mouth so he won't vomit all his useless fears, and resents the taste of carrots.

"But-but when are you coming h-home?"

Eddie wants to sigh.

He wants to pinch the pressure building behind his nose and maybe his headache will go away.

He wants to be able to close his eyes properly and get some actual rest without intrusive thoughts crowding his head.

He wants to hug his son, tell him everything is fine and never let him go.

He wants people to stop believing stupid shit and start caring about others so that this plague can go away.

He wants the vaccine ASAP.

He wants a lot of things that aren't going to happen today.

Instead he does his best imitation of a smile at the tiny screen in his hand and the worried expression on Christopher's face.

"As soon as we can, mijo. We gotta make sure we're not sick before we can come see you."

"But it's a-almost Christmas."

"I know," he soothes for the fifth time, hoping against the resurgence of that devastating pout. "I'm sorry, Chris. It's too dangerous."

"I wanna t-talk to B-Buck."

He swallows and doesn't look over at the isolation corner; doesn't need to because Buck's blotchy, sweaty face, scrunched in discomfort and half buried in the pillow he's curled against, is an ingrained enough image that he can see it even with his eyes closed.

"He--" he clears his throat. "He can't today, buddy, but when he's feeling better he'll call you as soon as he can, okay?"

"Are you s-sure?"

Even through the poor quality of the video, the fear shining in Christopher's eyes is a tangible weight that stacks on top of all his other failures as a father.

"I'm sure."

Time hangs in the air for just a split second, terrible and terrified and trembling--or no, that's just him.

Tired blue eyes rimmed red, slightly dazed and sunken over deep shadows are locked on him as he stands utterly useless. Even with the oxygen mask and the hiss of pure oxygen, the rattling gasps that leave those chapped lips, just a few shades from healthy, ring in his ears and drill into his brain.

He's horrifyingly helpless. Almost a decade of medical experience boiled down to a spectator, a supposed loved one to _keep calm and out of the way_ and to _let them work_.

And then with the chirp of the siren, Buck is _gone_. There are tears prickling at his eyes and his feet itch to follow because all the pieces of Eddie, the ones that aren't made of Christopher, might have left with him. Whatever little left that he _is_ feels like it's crumbling; tenuous threads of rationale are threatening to snap and it's all he can do to hang on to them, because there's just _absolutely nothing_ he can do and so his feet stay rooted. He can only stare between the empty bed and the empty ambulance bay where Buck _was_ and where he now _is_ , which is on his way to the hospital because he can't _breathe_.

And that...that might be him, too, because the air feels extraordinarily thin, almost non-existent as it reaches his lungs. He's drawing hard enough to suck in his mask and taste it on the tip of his tongue.

It tastes like ash.

It tastes like loss.

It tastes like an end.

He rips it off and walks back into the station.

It's only when his knuckles are just this side of bloody and there's sweat stinging his eyes and saturating his clothes and coating his tongue as he licks his lips that he finally remembers that they're both survivors of extraordinary circumstances and there's _just no way_ this is how it ends.

His thoughts have settled into a low simmer, pressed beneath the languid exhaustion and persistent ache suffusing his limbs and it feels, just a little, like everything will be okay.

His phone buzzes. Buck's name on his screen.

_Hey, I'm feeling better already! I'll be okay. I'll see you all soon._

And he laughs; has to just sit for a second, phone pressed up to his forehead and lips sealed tight before he starts to cry at the ridiculousness of this man reassuring _him_. But his chest has drawn tight again and the howling pit of loss inside him is exposed _again_ and maybe _still_ fracturing in a way he might not recover from and he can admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that it helps immensely.

His fingers are shaking again as he taps out a reply.

_I believe it._

_I'm here._

_I'm waiting._

Because they haven't even _begun_ and he wants to, more than ever, and he will. They will.

It's not an end.


End file.
